Wednesday, November 28
I hadn’t taken notes when Kate first told me about her relationship with Thorpe. Now, I had her repeat her story and asked for details along the way. She knew more about him than she’d originally let on: she knew his last name, she knew the street name of his cocaine source, and she’d recently seen the man who had finished her counterfeit passport.
“This is the kind of stuff the FBI wants, Kate. They need snitch information to get to guys like Thorpe, and George Cooper and I recognize your willingness to help in investigations is ‘doing the right thing.’ But you have to know it’s a double-edged sword: In the back of our minds, we’re saying, ‘My God, she was involved in more illegal behavior?’”
“Caroline,” Kate said with a long slow sigh, “I understand what you’re saying. Sometimes I can’t believe it myself. How did the daughter of a prominent family—herself a respected, educated professional—sink so low as to steal and consort with drug dealers and con men?
“I’m not sure how I got so far off-track, but I know my road to recovery will involve making amends. I believe in the laws of this country, and I don’t want to go on disrespecting them. I’m not doing this to get a reduced sentence, although I can’t deny that would be a nice benefit. Go ahead and prepare your proffer. I’ll tell Ellingson everything I know.”
Rosalee was off today. Kate read over my shoulder as I typed our statement into the computer, correcting errors and commenting as she saw the need. We worked well together, as we had in college. During one all-nighter, while smoking cigarettes and consuming pot after pot of black coffee, we had written a one-act play set during World War II. Our imaginations had been better then, but we were certainly better writers today.
We finished with a flourish. I signed the document and took it down the hall to the fax machine. When I returned, Kate sat staring at my watercolor.
“About last night,” I said, looking down at my shoes.
Kate turned to me. “We don’t need to rehash it. I said what was on my mind and I let it go. Honestly. I’ve gotten better at that lately.”
“But I didn’t say what I want to say—namely, I’m sorry. I was dead wrong. I’m your friend and your lawyer, but I’m not your keeper. And I certainly wasn’t demonstrating much confidence in your judgment.”
“Ah, Caroline. You were wrong to judge Jake by his appearance. But God knows I’ve given you a multitude of reasons to question my judgment. Don’t kick yourself for that. It will take a long time before anyone else will have confidence in my judgment.”
She got up, grabbed her purse off the floor and headed for the door. “I need to go meet with my realtor. I’ll see you at the U.S. Attorney’s office at three. Don’t be late!”
That day’s debriefing with Carter Ellingson and George Cooper went off without a hitch, and Ellingson was beyond grateful for the leads Kate provided. The interviews with Helen Garrety were another story altogether.
Thursday, November 29
Helen Garrety rang the doorbell of Kate’s condo ten minutes ahead of the appointed time. Kate and I put aside the college yearbook we’d been studying for the past hour and wiped the smiles from reminiscing about days gone by off our faces. Back to reality.
Helen Garrety looked less waif-like in tailored charcoal slacks, a softly patterned silk shirt, and flats. She declined a cup of coffee as Kate poured another for herself and one for me.
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to get started right away,” Garrety said, easing onto a stool at the breakfast bar. “We have quite a bit of ground to cover today.”
Her interviewing skills were masterful, among the best I’d ever seen. With nods, faint smiles, and remarkably few questions, Garrety elicited information I’d never known about my long-time friend: That an older sister had drowned in the family’s swimming pool. That Kate had been diagnosed as dyslexic in the second grade. That her father—when Kate was ten—had left the family and lived for a year with a woman much younger than Margaret. While I found this both startling and fascinating, it was nonetheless innocuous information when it came to Kate’s sentencing. We’d agreed to discuss the important matter—her criminal behavior—during our next meeting at Garrety’s office.
“Tell me about your research,” Garrety said, turning to a blank page in her notepad. I stretched in my chair and followed her lead. This might provide some strong ammunition for my sentencing arguments.
Who among us doesn’t enjoy talking about our work? That is, when someone’s truly listening. My modest, self-effacing husband glows when asked to share stories of his clients, their security issues, and his solutions for them. I imagine even a sixteen-year-old goes home from his job at McDonald’s and regales his family with tales of broken French-fryers, rude customers, and bossy bosses.
Kate Daniels was no different. And Helen Garrety truly listened while she described with pride the ongoing research and the progress she and her colleagues had made.
Finished with this line of inquiry, Garrety consulted her watch. “We haven’t gotten as far as I planned today,” she said, “but I’ve got another appointment. Let’s leave discussion of your substance abuse until next week.”
I nodded in assent.
“The only thing left on my agenda today,” Garrety said to Kate, “is a quick tour of your home.”
Kate showed her around the spacious condo while I lingered in the kitchen, jotting notes for my sentencing arguments. She escorted the probation officer out and returned with a look of exhaustion on her face.
“Good Lord! What took you guys so long?” I asked.
“The woman’s thorough, that’s for sure,” Kate said with a hint of a smile. I realized she’d been smiling a lot lately—and not always effortlessly. “She asked questions about everything in every room. Who painted that picture? Where did you get that vase? Is that armoire antique or a reproduction? How long ago did you redecorate the powder room? She took down my every answer.”
“Did—”
“Yes, I told her the truth!”
Thursday, December 6
Our initial interview with Helen Garrety niggled at me—so much so that I called a defense lawyer I knew for some advice. A former hippie from New York, Jim Corcoran had come here for law school in the late ‘60s and never left. He’d shed his beard and long hair but retained his civil libertarian bent. He also knew the ins and outs of federal court.
Over a burger and beer at a dive near the county courthouse—his favorite lunch spot—I explained to Jim the situation: Kate had pleaded guilty, cooperated with the cops, and was working on selling her assets to pay full restitution. But I got funny vibes about Helen Garrety’s exhaustive questioning. Should I limit her questions at our upcoming session?
“I’ve got one single piece of advice on the issue,” Jim said. “Don’t let your client talk to the PO about her crime.” He resumed the attack on his cheeseburger.
“But don’t we risk the three-point credit for her acceptance of responsibility if she doesn’t agree to be interviewed about it?” I asked.
He washed down his bite with a swig of beer. “Which judge did you draw?” he asked.
“Hugh Coburn.”
“At the plea hearing, he questioned her about what she’d done, right?”
I nodded.
“Did she hedge?”
“Not at all,” I said. “She was very forthright.”
“Then the potential pitfalls of the interview outweigh anything you’d hope to gain. If you absolutely feel you have to say something, submit a written statement outlining her conduct. But make sure George Cooper reads it first and agrees with your facts. Then have your client write a personal letter to the judge—okayed by you, of course—admitting and apologizing for her crime. She can describe her cocaine addiction—the court already knows all about that. But don’t let her come off like a victim.”
“Right.”
“Do your best to have a check ready to pay full restitution on the day of sentencing,” he added, “and I’m sure the judge will give her the three-point credit.”
Even Jim’s confident assessment of the situation failed to reassure me. “Won’t it piss off Helen Garrety if we decline the interview at this late date?”
“I haven’t personally worked with her yet—she’s only been on the job about a year. I hear she’s a real devotee of the sentencing guidelines, though. Which is all the more reason to decline the interview.”
“I guess we could still meet with her and let her ask questions in person about Kate’s prior record and drug use.”
“Even that’s risky, since they’re all intertwined with this crime,” he said, wiping ketchup from the corner of his mouth with a crumpled paper napkin. “But that’s your call.”
“One more thing, Jim,” I said. “George Cooper’s agreed to file a 5K motion for downward departure based on her cooperation in two cases. One is her coke dealer—the guy she put on the university payroll as a fictitious research assistant. The other case is unrelated, a Nigerian con man who gave her a phony passport and some funny money.”
Jim raised an eyebrow then drained his beer mug. “I hope she’s not a typical university professor. As a taxpayer, I’d be pissed if she was.”
“Me, too. Anyway, Cooper says she could probably expect more benefit if he waited to file the motion for reduction of sentence after those two cases are settled.”
“That’s been my experience,” he said. “Your client would be in suspense longer, but the wait is usually worth it. She might get a one- or two-level downward departure if he files early, but a three- or four-level reduction in sentence later, once the judge can see the real value of her help.”
“Let me make sure I understand. You recommend we have Cooper delay filing the motion for reduction, and Kate gets sentenced without it. Then, when the dealer and the con man are charged, and hopefully convicted, Cooper files a motion to bring Kate back to have her sentence modified—presumably much lower?”
“You got it.”
I left the bar and drove directly to Kate’s, relieved to find her at home, amid piles of packing boxes, books, and papers.
“To what do I owe this honor?” she asked, handing me a Diet Pepsi from the refrigerator.
I explained my concerns about our upcoming interview. “I agree with Jim Corcoran,” I said. “I think we should cancel.”
“C’mon, Caroline! You can’t be serious!” Kate said. “It’d look like I’ve got something to hide. Which I don’t!”
It’s just like the drug couriers on the interstate, stopped by state troopers. They’d get pulled over for speeding, or a broken taillight, or a cracked windshield. The cop would casually ask if they were carrying any drugs—to which the answer would always be no. Then the cop would ask permission to search the car. More often than most people could imagine, the couriers would consent to the search, knowing full well there was a kilo of cocaine, or marijuana, or methamphetamine hidden not well enough to remain undetected by the trooper or the drug dog that would be summoned to help. They wouldn’t refuse, because then the cop would think they were guilty.
I relayed this all to Kate.
“It’s not the same thing at all,” she said.
“Even when I worked for the DA, smack dab on the side of law and order,” I said, “I would never give someone consent to search my car. You can’t be sure someone’s not trying to set you up. And you don’t know what they’re looking for. You can’t be sure of those things now either.”
“You’re being paranoid, Caroline. I don’t know why you have a bad feeling about Helen Garrety. I think she likes me, and I believe we have a pretty good rapport.”
“It’s not a question of her liking or disliking you. It’s how she perceives what you’ve done. And as for rapport—she’s gotten you to disclose everything about yourself while revealing nothing of herself.”
“But we’ve been over and over the sentencing guidelines. It seems like a pretty objective system to me, and I don’t see how talking to her can hurt me.”
“I agree with you to a point,” I said. “But Helen Garrety makes a confidential recommendation to Judge Coburn for a specific sentence. If the range is twelve to eighteen months in prison and she recommends eighteen because of some personal judgment she’s made, there’s nothing we can do about it. It’s safer to present your side of the story on paper. That way we can choose our words carefully and read it over and over to make sure we won’t be misinterpreted.”
I paused, overwhelmed by feelings I hadn’t seen coming on. “I know I sound overly cautious, but I don’t want you to spend one more day in prison than necessary. Because part of me will be there with you.”
Kate finally sat to rest on top of a packing crate. “Okay,” she said. “We’ll do it your way about the crime. But I would like to talk with her about my addiction in person. I’ll be sure not to make excuses.”
She got up and started putting more books in a box.
“You know Caroline, sometimes you analyze things too much,” Kate said. “Sometimes you just have to go with your gut.”
“Maybe… but I’ve got a queasy feeling in my gut.”
“That’s because your head’s spinning from looking at things from three-hundred and sixty different angles.”
I called Helen Garrety and told her of our change in plans. Not surprisingly, I could read nothing in her equable response. “I appreciate your telling me ahead of time. It’ll shorten our interview and free up my afternoon a bit,” she said as I rang off.
“Before I go,” I said to Kate, “we need to talk about the motion for a lower sentence based on your cooperation. Jim Corcoran recommends we have George Cooper wait until after you’re sentenced to request a reduction. He thinks we may get more bang for your buck.”
As I explained Jim’s rationale, Kate became more and more agitated, no longer packing boxes but pacing the room.
“I already got Joe Ames busted and testified before the grand jury to get him indicted, and then I gave them a boatload of evidence against Thorpe Akani,” she said.
“But they might need you to testify if Ames goes to trial, and they’re not even ready to indict Akani—that could take six months.”
“I don’t want to wait. I want my reward when I’m sentenced. I know you’re gonna argue for probation or work release. But if the judge gives me prison time, I want to know right then and there how long I’ll have to serve. It’s the only way I’ll be able to cope with it.”
“Even if you could get a bigger sentence reduction by waiting?” I asked, exasperated by her failure to see reason.
“Even then.” She put a cigarette in her mouth and lit it as she paced.
“I think you’re making a hasty decision,” I said, miffed by both her attitude and her smoking.
“It’s my call, Caroline. And I’ve made it. End of discussion.”
Friday, December 7
I felt compelled to take charge when we met at Garrety’s still-sterile office several days later. “My client wants to talk with you personally about the offense and her prior record,” I said. “But, as you know, I’ve asked her not to. We’ll submit a written statement instead. She’ll talk with you about her substance abuse today.”
Garrety nodded and got down to business—no idle chatter for her.
My heart ached for Kate as she repeated the story: her mother’s addiction to alcohol, her father’s contributions to the problem, her own insecurities and the invincibility she felt when using cocaine. She did more than recite empty facts and figures. Kate bared her soul yet again.
Helen Garrety nodded from time to time and made almost constant eye contact with Kate—encouraging her ever so subtly. When Kate paused in her recitation, Garrety inquired about another aspect of the problem.
“Please tell me about how your cocaine usage affected your work,” she said, leaning a bit closer to Kate. I felt like I was in one of the hypnotic trances I’d learned to self-induce to relieve my panic attacks—a comfortable state I was reluctant to disturb. Now Helen Garrety asked my friend for potentially damning information and I sat immobilized, listening without hearing.
Kate stretched in her chair. “That’s a tough question,” she said. “I took pride in my research and always wanted to do my best. Sometimes the cocaine gave me the boost I needed or the extra energy to do the work. It may have helped me concentrate.”
“You went to the lab when you were high?” Garrety asked. As her voice rose in surprise, I realized Kate had taken the earlier question more literally than Garrety had intended it. She’d meant, “Tell me how your cocaine habit affected your career.” Candid Kate had incriminated herself once more. There was nothing I could do but hold my breath and hope she could acquit herself.
“Sometimes, but not often,” Kate said. “There were lab assistants to monitor things on a routine basis. If I used coke when I was working, it was more often while I was collating data or writing.”
“Wasn’t your attention to detail impaired?”
“Well, at the time, I’d swear it wasn’t. But in retrospect, it had to be. It’s like the drunk who insists he’s fully capable of driving a car. He thinks he’s okay, but objective measures of reflexes, perception, and the like would show it’s just not true.”
“Could you have made mistakes in copying or interpreting your data when you were using?” Garrety asked.
“I hope not. But since I’ve been sober, I’ve gone over the work I did then, trying to be sure. So far, things have checked out okay.”
It was a good answer—one that partially alleviated my concerns.
Garrety switched gears: She asked about The Meadows program and how Kate felt about her progress, and the interview ended on a positive note.
“Did I do okay, counselor?” Kate asked—as if she had nary a care in the world—while we walked toward the parking lot.
I saw nothing to be gained by sharing my earlier alarm.